The Layoff Pool
The fluorescent lights hum with a persistent, maddening vibration, matching the tremor in Ellen's hands. She'd been taking the same vitamin D supplement every morning for three years—her doctor's recommendation after her miscarriage, a small yellow pill that was supposed to fix what felt fundamentally broken inside her.
Now she stood at the edge of the hotel pool in Scottsdale, watching the water ripple in artificial turquoise waves. Below, the sales team from her company laughed and splashed, their martinis forgotten on cheap mosaic tables. They'd all bet on who would be promoted to regional director. Ellen's name wasn't in the pool.
"You're too soft, El," Marcus had told her two months ago, his hand lingering on her lower back in that way that made her feel simultaneously seen and cornered. Marcus the fox, clever and hungry and married to someone else.
Her phone buzzed. Her sister: Mom's worse. The cat won't leave her bedside.
Ellen thought of her mother's orange tabby, how it had sensed death before the hospice nurse arrived. Animals knew things humans couldn't admit to themselves.
She looked at her reflection in the pool's dark surface. Forty-two years old, and she was still waiting for someone to tell her she was enough—smart enough, desirable enough, worthy enough. The vitamin had been a placebo for her soul.
Marcus emerged from the pool, water dripping from his swimmer's body. "Ellen," he said, and in his voice she heard everything she wanted and everything that would destroy her.
She looked at her phone again. Her sister had sent a picture: their mother, thin and translucent, the orange cat pressed against her chest as if it could somehow keep her here.
Ellen walked to the pool's edge. "I'm going home," she said.
Marcus's face shifted calculation to concern. "Is everything okay?"
"No," Ellen said. "But it will be."
She left without saying goodbye to anyone. The vitamin could wait. The fox could hunt someone else. She had a cat to pet, a mother to hold, and finally, herself to forgive.